A Jazz Story
by conrade sapfeather
Summary: I wrote it in 7th grade. It's pretty bad, but read it anyway, cuz it's funny and it has louis armstrong. ps - what does angst mean?
1. Warm Up and Intro

Joe walked into the Shoebox, a combination bar and illegal liquor shop on the "dark side" of Chicago, with an air of unhappiness in his complexion. It was a rather chilly day, but weather did't matter much in 1920's Chicago.  
  
"What happened this time, Joe?" asked Sam, the owner of the place. "Did you mess up again?"  
  
"No, but that Louis Armstrong fellow stole the show again."  
  
"You really hate him, don't you?" Sam pressed.  
  
Sam was a rather portly fellow, who never usually stirred from his location on the seat behind the bar. He was really just resting from his "years and years" of travel.  
  
"Well, uh no," Joe stuttered, "I mean, well... heh heh....Yeah, I guess."  
  
"Killer, Joe."  
  
Joe played in King Oliver's Creole band for a living. He was actually quite the swinging saxophone player. His primary trouble was the fact that Armstrong was a swinging-er cornet player, and the up-and-coming jazz giant usually upstaged him. Thus, feelings of envy welled up inside Joe Robinson's heart of hearts, and he would get pretty mad. The only problem was that Joe was usually too shy to admit that fact.  
  
"Either way, how 'bout you have a nice beer on the house? I just got something called, um, 'Anheiser-Busch.' Apparently they've been around for a while, like 20 years, but I'm just gettin' into them. They're actually pretty good. Try some."  
  
Joe grabbed the unfamiliar beer-bottle and guzzled a whole gulp. After wiping his mouth of the rancid-smelling solution, he gave a deep, bellowing, toad-like belch. "You know, this stuff makes me feel kinda like a frog."  
  
Sam replied, "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Joe finished downing the booze, and then, hiccuping, said, "I dunno (bud)... It's just kinda, er, (hic), funny feeling."  
  
"Joe, all beer feels like that."  
  
"Oh yeah (hic). I forgot..."  
  
"Just sit back and rest. You'll get over the initial shock. I mean, as soon as you get addicted, it feels just fine."  
  
After the words were uttered, a shady character named Jacky Bartholomew, who is known for having a nonexistent social life and a low rate of mental stability, intruded on the conversation: "Guys, never get addicted to nuthin... just a waste o' yer hard-earned time... I mean, I wuz into everything when I wuz young, and look where I am now.... Could ya pour me another booze? I like it hard and cool."  
  
Sam gave an obvious "What a loony!" look to Joe, and then gave Jacky a brew of some of the more anesthetic brands, muttering, "Perhaps this will shut him up."  
  
"Anyway," Sam continued, "are you planning a major comeback to outblast your opponent through the roofs of the ratings?"  
  
"Probably not," answered Joe. "I think that I'll just go on doing exactly as I've been doing for the past couple of months."  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe I'll find out as I move along. In the end, I'm sure that everything will work out fine."  
  
"All right. Whatever you say."  
  
"Isn't that how it's always been?"  
  
"No, it's always been 'The customer is always right.' Now it's 'Whatever you say.'"  
  
"Whatever you say."  
  
"Hey, if you say that enough, you just might attract some more customers than we get now."  
  
"Whatever you say."  
  
"Get outta town! (Hee hee!)"  
  
Joe started in on another drink, when suddenly George Steinbach, or Sly Sty as he was more lovingly called by the folks in the polker club, bent over and whispered to Joe, "You gonna play in the big game in a couple o' days?" Sty was the in-house poker champ, and he had the money to prove it.  
  
Joe finished his drink and replied, "Ya know, I don't think I really could go for that high stakes stuff. Low budget, you know."  
  
Actually, Sly Sty had no idea what it meant to have a low budget, but he dismissed the poor patron anyway with a look of mock-understanding on his well-trained polker face.  
  
Suddenly, Jacky screamed, "Copsh er comin'!"  
  
Sam yelled, "Emergency precautions!" while thinking silently to himself, "Why isn't he asleep yet?"  
  
Everyone quickly stuffed their bottles into their pants, acted as sober as possible, and made all possible signs of being in a normal juice bar, not a Speakeasy.  
  
The cops kicked the door down, walked in and said, "We hear you've been selling alcohol illegally!"  
  
Sam innocently replied, "Me? I only sell juice. Actually, I do sell some beer, I admit."  
  
"Just as I suspected."  
  
Sam chuckled and said, "Root Beer!" The rest of the bar smiled and giggled, though repulsed by the bluntly bad joke.  
  
Though unamused, the cop turned sheepish and apologized: "Well then, I just suppose we'll get going. Ya know, with prohibition comin' out now, we gotta be careful. Personally, I can't wait 'till they amend it. It's like Stinky Cheese to enforce it."  
  
"You'd be surprised," muttered Sam as police man left the bar, and everyone returned to their normal state of half-drunk lolly-gagging.  
  
After a while, Joe made his way to the door. At this time, the young Jizzo, a member of the neighborhood gang "The Stingers", bumped into him. "Hey," Joe scolded, jokingly, "Isn't it past your bedtime?"  
  
"Whatever you say," was Jizzo's reply.  
  
Joe started laughing inwardly.  
  
"What's so funny?" asked Jizzo.  
  
Joe regained his composure and replied, "Never mind."  
  
After a couple moments of awkward silence, Jizzo tried to strike up a conversation by saying, "You know, it's come to my attention that you are a slave to your work and you have no social life beyond the bounds of this illegal bar in the backstreets of Chicago."  
  
Somewhat taken aback, Joe replied, "So?"  
  
"So I was thinking, maybe you could hang out with my gang at some point. We could hang out and have fun."  
  
After pausing for a while (just so he wouldn't look inconsiderate), Joe replied, "Sorry pal, but I'm too busy."  
  
"Thanks for proving my point." Jizzo then averted his attention to Sam: "Hey, can I have something? I like it hard and cool."  
  
"What's the magic word?" answered Sam, trying to improve on his youngest customer's manners.  
  
Jizzo let out a long sigh. "Please?"  
  
"All right," said Sam. He then took the anesthetics out again and winked at Joe.  
  
Still somewhat startled by the boy's words, yet strangely amused at the proceedings, Joe left the bar, half-reluctantly. 


	2. 2 - Business as Usual & Love...

The next day was business as usual for Joe Robinson. He got up and practiced on his saxophone like he always did. As it has been said, Joe was pretty good, and as a result his neighbors didn't mind the 24-hour-a- day jazz flowing from the house.  
  
Joe's house was a run-down shack he had bought for a very small number of pennies. It had a horrible paint-job, and was littered with suits of clothing and little surprises from his dog, Bleu Z. Robinson. The latter were usually removed from the custody of his home, just in case guests showed up, and also because Joe couldn't stand them himself. Of course, the neighbors didn't exactly enjoy dog-pies in the middle of the street, but what were they going to do about it?  
  
The rest of the houses on Basin Street, Chicago, were decorated in much the same way, besides the fact that some of them didn't have dogs. Scattered about the street were other factories which continually spewed disgusting rot into the air, giving the inhabitants the Basin Street Blues.  
  
After Joe practiced every day, he would eat his lunch, and then practice some more. He's actually pretty lucky that his neighbors didn't mind all-day jazz soloing. Other neighbors would be on his case and he'd never live it down unless he tuned it down. The people on Basin Street didn't really care at all about much of anything, so Joe never got any kind of complaint from them, lucky for him. Recently, Joe had been practicing extra hard because of a big concert set to occur in a week. At this concert, a bunch of big, impressive, and important people, like the governor, president, and school custodian, were rumored to be showing up, and everyone in the band (especially Joe) wanted to make a great show for these nobilities.  
  
Anyway Joe did not have much of a life outside of his music and his frequent visits to the Shoebox Speakeasy.  
  
Actually, there was one thing more....  
  
The music was sweet on Royal Garden Street.  
  
Joe stood in the middle of the street beneath an overhanging patio, sweetly, smoothly, and strangely beautifully, honking out lovely ballads with his tenor sax. The folks on Royal Garden Street loved it, but Joe wasn't playing for them. He was only playing for one resident, and that lucky resident was sweet Georgia Brown.  
  
Georgia was a lovely lady who lived in an apartment on Royal Garden Street. She was a tall, slim, dark woman with deep brown eyes and a lovely, ear-catching voice. Joe and she are madly in love, but Joe is to shy and poor to ask her to marry him.  
  
Actually, the two of them weren't always on even terms with one another. In fact, when they first met they hated each other.  
  
It was on the occasion of the monthly beer chug-a-lug contest at the Shoebox. Joe was new at the place, and Sam thought it might help him fit in if he tried the chug-a-lug against their defending champ, Miss G....  
  
"So, Joe was it?" Sam had said, "You seem pretty cool, but how are you at drinking?"  
  
"Huh?" wondered Joe.  
  
"Never mind." Then Sam shouted to everyone within earshot, "I think it's high time for our monthly Chug-a-Lug contest!" The crowd cheered, and then started chanting, "Chug-a-Lug! Chug-a-Lug!"  
  
After everyone calmed down, Sam continued: "I think it might be fun to have the new guy try. We'll have her face Miss G. Where's Miss G.?" the small group cheered even louder, and brought forth a strange, relatively petite, woman, with a nasty look on her face.  
  
Though shaken by the girl's looks, Joe decided to go forth and partake in the festivities anyway. The two challengers sat at opposite ends of the table. Miss G. spat out a hunk of tobacco and said darkly, "Take yer best shot."  
  
And that's exactly what Joe did. He took a couple of shots, actually. So did Miss G. In fact, she took more.  
  
At about the third cupful, Joe's head was spinning. After the fourth, he was seeing spots. A fifth came. Joe had no idea of what was happening: he had lost all feeling in his brain. The last thing he saw was Miss G. flashing a sly, but extremely beautiful grin.  
  
Then he fell...  
  
...he fell...  
  
Joe fell in love.  
  
Suddenly, the music stopped! "Miss G." stepped out onto the patio to look for her lover, and at the same time, she gave a little speech:  
  
"Robinson, Joe Robinson, wherefore art thou, Robinson?  
  
I knew him well.  
  
Thy music hast ceased, and 'tis now but a mere memory.  
  
Where is thy jazz, thy beautiful ballads?  
  
They are no more, they cease but as I am listening.  
  
What's in a song? A song is but a shadow of the soul.  
  
Oh, Robinson, Joe Robinson, wherefore art thou?"  
  
"I'm over here!" yelled Joe. "Oops! I mean,  
  
"Fair Georgia, on my mind,  
  
I am as yet right under your nose,  
  
and to prove my love shall I scale these walls,  
  
and meet my lass  
  
in her home, her proper dwelling!"  
  
(The people of Royal Garden Street loved it when Joe came over not only because of the sweet sounding music he played, but also because of the inspirational poetry that was inspired as a result of these meetings.)  
  
At this point Joe thought it would be proper to meet his lady in her patio, so he proceeded with a running start towards the small apartment...  
  
...He leapt!...  
  
High up in the air flew Joe Robinson! So high in fact that he, almost reached Georgia's high patio...  
  
...almost...  
  
SMACK!!  
  
Georgia could all-but keep herself from laughing as her unfortunate suitor slunk to the ground. 


	3. 3 - The Plot Thickens

It was the next day, and at Sweeney's Jazz Club the band was preparing for another performance in the spotlight. Sitting at the bar were two interesting characters, waiting for the music to start.  
  
One of the men was trying to cut a steak. "I really like this new steak they're serving up here, Bob, but it's kinda tough to eat with just a fork."  
  
"What're you talking `bout, Jim?" replied the other guy.  
  
"I can't cut it!"  
  
"Lemme see!" Bob picked up the fork and tried to cut the steak, but to no avail.  
  
Jim grabbed it back. "You couldn't cut a piece of steak with a knife!" he insulted. Then he started thinking: "Maybe I could cut this thing with a knife!" Then he yelled to the bartender, "Hey! I need a knife!"  
  
"Huh?" asked Sweeney, the in-house barkeep.  
  
"The knife! Mack, the knife!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
As Jim was happily cutting his meat, Bob tugged his shoulder and said, "Hey, Jim, the music's starting!"  
  
And it was.  
  
King Oliver's band was one of the best around, especially with Louis Armstrong heading up the trumpet section. It's no wonder the fans loved them. They could play anything around. Of course, in the 1920's, there wasn't much to work with as far as jazz goes, so the Creole band did mostly originals by Oliver himself and some things by the small group of other Dixieland notables of the day.  
  
It was common of the band to start with a big, up-beat song in a major or 7th key, just to keep the crowd interested. It usually works. After a couple of tunes like that, they might go on to some slow ballad, or minor key. This would keep the crowd interested. The crowd liked being interested. It kept them entertained. And when they're entertained, they stay and pay more money. And that makes the band members happy, because they get bonuses.  
  
But, the plot has to thicken at this point, and that is why we have tragic things start to happen (note my clever use of foreshadowing). Actually, I think that you should think that the plot could use a little help by now. You're probably bored out of your minds.  
  
SO... Joe was beginning to get really nervous because of the soon-to- occur "Big Show" that was coming up the next day because... well... let's face it, he only had a day to practice and, according to his standards, Joe wasn't ready.  
  
Joe's un-readiness really showed when the music started, and Joe realized that it was the one song that Joe hadn't practiced the previous week. He had kept putting it off one more day... and now it was too late. Joe could fake the verses, he could fake the chorus, but he couldn't fake his solo. Not even his lucky reed could help him.  
  
After the fact, Joe was told that he was supposed to be playing in Dm7 b9, but Joe had thought he was playing in F7+6, and everyone knows that there are nine worlds of difference between a Dm7b9 and F7+6. The moral of the story is, practice makes perfect.  
  
But just because there's a moral doesn't mean there's an ending.  
  
You read me correctly, this story goes on for at least ten more pages.  
  
Sorry.  
  
"Hey, Bob."  
  
"Yeah, Jim?"  
  
The two patrons were still watching the music (that's almost an oxi- moron).  
  
"You noticed how that lead saxophone guy doesn't know what he's doing?"  
  
"Yeah. It gives music a bad name."  
  
"Hey! I got an idea! Let's leave without paying as a means of revenge for this... this... this noise!"  
  
"Good idea Jim."  
  
"Actually, it wasn't mine."  
  
"Whose was it?"  
  
"Everyone else's."  
  
Because of Joe's horrendous playing in the first song, half of the entire audience left the bar without paying. The rest of the audience began to riot and spew naughty words at the band. Amidst the chaos, one of the floutists was picked up by the "mosh-pit" and thrown out the window. Luckily, he landed in a garbage dumpster. I just thought I'd say that. Anyway, after everyone else had left, the band members took the initiative and began to shun Joe. Mack Sweeney, the owner of the bar, decided not to pay the band due to the sudden flash of horridness that had robbed him of all his customers.  
  
For Joe, who was the cause of this whole disaster, it was like salty- cheese frosting on a pickle cake. He left the jazz club with a downcast expression of depression on his face, and trudged slowly through the muddy streets to the Shoebox Speakeasy. There, he knew, he would be accepted for who he really was.  
  
When he got to the speakeasy, Joe found that the weekly poker game had just begun, with Sly Sty, Jizzo, and a strange woman that Joe didn't recognize.  
  
"Hey Joe!" yelled Sty. "Ya wanna join the poker game? There's only three of us, and we need four to fit the table."  
  
After thinking it over, Joe realized that after that night's performance, he didn't have much to lose. He took his seat next to the poker champ and said, in a rather melancholy fashion, "Sure. Count me in." Then he leaned over and whispered to Sty, "Who's that lady?"  
  
"That lady" was a tall, slender woman with an ugly haircut, lots of makeup, and a nauseatingly short dress. Joe figured right off the bat that she must be one of those flappers that were popping up everywhere those days.  
  
"This," said George, proudly, "Is Dolly, my new girlfriend. Dolly, meet Joe. Joe, Dolly."  
  
"Hi Joe," the girl half-whispered.  
  
"Hello, Dolly," replied Joe, uncertainly.  
  
"Now that we know each other," Sty announced, "Let's get this show on the road!"  
  
So the game began.  
  
The first deal consisted of Joe opening the betting with nearly a dollar in cash, because he strongly believed in his hand of two two's (like I said, he was new at the game.) Jizzo raised him two dollars, and George Steinbach matched it. Dolly just did like Sty did. After they traded in their cards, Joe wound up with another two, which was enough to make this rookie happy. He added ten dollars to the pool. The turn came to Sty, and he exclaimed, "Hey, Joe, I'm no Vanderbilt, but I'm pretty certain I could top that." He added twenty. Joe still had faith in his two's, so he matched Sty.  
  
When the time came to lay out the cards, Joe proudly displayed his three twos. Jizzo countered with 3-pair. He was then disqualified for taking too many cards. Dolly had absolutely no idea of what was in her hand, so she folded at the last-minute. Finally it was Sty's turn. He jumped upon the table, holding the cards to his heart, and reciting French poetry, building up to the climax where he finally showed his hand of five aces, all of them spades. Of course, his opponents lacked the necessary experience (or the plain common sense. No one knows which) to suspect anything fishy.  
  
This first hand was typical of the next twenty, with Sty getting all the good cards and occasionally letting Dolly win, at which point she would start crying about her luck, or lack thereof. He also promised to share his winnings with Dolly after they got married, and that usually shut her up.  
  
And the gang played on... 


	4. 4 - The Meaning of the Blues & Newfound ...

After the game, Sty walked off with his girlfriend and a pretty pocketful of pennies. Jizzo was none the worse for all his losses: he had secretly used all counterfeit money. Joe, the only real honest dealer, was the only one who left the game broke.  
  
Soon after all the poker players had left, it became time for the bar to close. All the other guests left the building except for Joe, who stayed behind to watch Sam clean the bar up.  
  
After the seats were folded and all but one of the lights had been put out, Joe was still staring into space, waiting for something to happen. He wasn't sure what, but he just felt that something had to happen.  
  
Then, something happened: Sam put his hand on Joe's shoulder, and said, "You're waiting for something to happen, aren't ya?"  
  
Startled from his sense of semi-comatose-ness, Joe regained his composure and stated, rather foolishly, "Well, yeah. Has anything happened yet."  
  
"Yup," replied Sam, matter of factly, "you're broke."  
  
This horrible memory crushed Joe. He bent over, sobbing out loud.  
  
"There, there," coaxed Sam. "You'll be fine."  
  
Joe slowed his despair down, looked up, and said, "It's just, I've always been wanting (sob) a (sob) happy ending of some sort, (sob) and all I've been able to do is...is... mess up!"  
  
"Even the best go through hard times," Sam eased. "Why look at me! When I was working with the WangaBoboChisisisisisikangaRooroTubbyola- NgchiWaNgChIWongoes, down in Africa, we had a really hard time. One time, the tribe leader had finally found the girl of his dreams. Now, in the WangaBoboChisisisisisikangaRooroTubbyolaNgchiWaNg-ChIWongoe society, a custom for fiancÃ©s is to go on a hunting trip together."  
  
"So they went hunting, and he pegged her with a poison dart?" Joe inquired.  
  
"No, not exactly, but his queen was also my girlfriend."  
  
"The never ending story of broken hearts?"  
  
"Exactly." Now it was Sam who was sobbing. "Boy, do I ever miss Elita Franchita Gordita." (Here, Sam wailed uncontrollably for about ten seconds, then he snapped out of it.) "If you think losing all your money is hard, try losing the love of your life!"  
  
Joe was going to say, "I'd rather not," but he stopped himself. Then he thought about what the man was saying. He concluded that it had nothing to do with happy endings. "What does this have to do with my problems?" Joe demanded.  
  
Back in the real world by now, Sam replied, "Nothing, really, it's just a nice love story. By the way, I never saw Elita again."  
  
"Great story, Sam, but I think it's past my bedtime."  
  
Whatever Joe was saying about bedtimes, he must have not meant it, because on the way to his humble abode, he met up with Jizzo and some of his friends.  
  
"You still too busy to have some fun with the gang?" Jizzo asked.  
  
Joe thought about it for a while, and then simply said, "I guess not."  
  
"Then let's go!"  
  
It was a strange sight to see a tall black man running alongside a group of young teenagers. The thought of why the gang would want to meddle with him never crossed Joe's mind.  
  
The night was anything but young when the crew got started at around three in the morning. They started light: throwing rocks at passing cars. When they ran out of rocks, they threw chunks of granite. It was almost fun. Joe enjoyed it for a while, but eventually it got boring. Whenever they spotted someone walking in the dark alone, they would pick their pockets. After they got enough pockets picked, they gave all the money to Joe. In the end, Joe had more money than he could remember ever having.  
  
The next morning, Joe woke up to find himself lying on a park bench. It took a couple knocks in the head for Joe to remember what had happened the night before. When he did remember, Joe felt horrible about all his ill-gotten gain. but when he felt his pockets, they were empty.  
  
Several choice words could have been used against the Stingers at that point, but they weren't. Joe walked home feeling horrible, sick, and strangely hungry. Joe looked at the clock on the clock-tower.  
  
Twelve Noon!  
  
To add to the tragedy of the moment, Joe realized that today was the day of the big performance!  
  
Joe ran home to get his saxophone and start practicing. He took the horn out and quickly put it together. In the hastiness of the moment, though, Joe dropped his lucky reed and accidentally stepped on it, splintering his toe and ruining the wood. The lucky reed had cumbusted, which was a bad omen for Joe. He felt like screaming. He did.  
  
This was not Joe's day.  
  
Joe struggled through his daily practice routine. It wasn't easy, considering his number one reed was yesterday's news. That and the fact that he only had one day to practice.  
  
Either way, by the time he finished practicing all the tunes, his clock said 4:30, a half hour before the full-band rehearsal. He hurried over to the jazz club and got there just in time, but he found that all the lights were turned off, and no one was inside. To add to the suspense, the clock at the club only said 4:00. For no particular reason, Joe started to panic.  
  
It was then that he saw it: a light in the dark: the shadow of a man with a trumpet, contrasting greatly to a brilliant light surrounding it.  
  
Slowly, Joe stepped inside and managed to ask the specter, "Have you come to take me home?"  
  
"Home? Whatch'you talkin' 'bout?" came the reply in an startlingly familiar voice.  
  
"You mean, your not Gabriel?"  
  
"Of course not!" the man said as he walked into Joe's range of visibility.  
  
"You're right. Gabriel would have better looking clothes." Joe stopped himself as he realized who the person was. "Louis Armstrong?" he said, while thinking to himself, "How could I have mistook you for and angel?"  
  
"In the flesh," Louis said heartily, apparently not having read Joe's thoughts.  
  
"Well, since your not that exciting, I guess I'll just go home until the rest of the band comes."  
  
"Why do you want to leave? I always come here early. Good habit."  
  
Joe thought for a while how to put his thoughts, then stated simply, "I hate you."  
  
Somewhat insulted by this last remark, Louis thought to himself, "Was it something I said?" Instead, he said, sarcastically, "Well, I like you, too."  
  
Joe busted up in tears. "It's all right!" eased Louis. "I didn't mean it!"  
  
"It's not that!" sobbed Joe.  
  
"Then what is it?" Louis persisted.  
  
"It's just, well, I don't know, I just... don't know!"  
  
"Most of the time, people do. They're just not usually willing to admit it."  
  
"I guess you're right it's just... I don't know!"  
  
Louis could see he wasn't getting anywhere, so he tried a different approach: "I'll give you some time to cool down."  
  
"NO!!" Joe screamed, then, holding himself, said, "No, I need to talk to you."  
  
"Always a great way to solve problems, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So what do ya wanna talk about?"  
  
"Well, it's just... you know how whenever we perform, the band, you know, Oliver always seems to let you take the best solos, er, the most solos, er..."  
  
"I get it, and I've noticed."  
  
"Well, I practice just as hard as you" (starting to scream) "and I get less than half the credit! My name isn't even in the programs!!"  
  
"There are no programs."  
  
"That's besides the point. If I could only have one... one..." (breaking up and moaning again.)  
  
"Calm down, calm down," said Louis, gently. Then, he immediately thought of an idea. "Hey, Joe. I'll tell you what I'm gonna do...." 


	5. 5 - Crescendo: Whatever you say...

The hour of the big show was nigh, and most everyone showed up. Especially the important people, like the president of the United States, the president of the UN, and the president of the chess club. Of course, Joe was nervous, but his chat with Satchmo had given him a little more confidence than usual.  
  
As the clamor of the varied guests was ensuing, the lights suddenly got dim. King Oliver took his stand in the director's podium, with his director's stick, and slowly, he counted off the beginning rhythm.  
  
"Uno...  
  
"Dos...  
  
"One, two, tres, cuatro!"  
  
BANG!!! The communists attacked!  
  
Actually, they didn't. It was just a very, very, very, very, very upbeat song, and Joe had the pleasure of playing the opening solo. The confused look on Oliver's face reflected the fact that Louis Armstrong was supposed to be playing that solo. Even so, Joe played quite the whopper of a tune, and it was quite the treat for the audience.  
  
"Hey, Jim."  
  
"Yeah, Bob?"  
  
"Isn't that the guy that ruined my eardrums the other night?"  
  
"I believe so, Bob."  
  
"I wasn't gonna come."  
  
"Me neither."  
  
"But my girlfriend, Elita, wanted to come for a date. I'm glad she asked. Otherwise I'd have missed this performance. What's the word? Saxophono Supremo...?"  
  
"Isn't it Estupido Ganzo?"  
  
"No, I think it's Saxophono Supremo."  
  
"Either way. Hey, where is your girlfriend any way?"  
  
"Come to think of it, I haven't the slightest."  
  
"Haven't the slightest what? Clue?"  
  
"No... care."  
  
Sam and the rest of the barroom gang were attending the concert as well. They took a seat near the front row, where they could get a good view of the band.  
  
Sam, who was sitting in the back-most seat, was busy criticizing the make and wear of the big-name jazz club, as opposed to his back-alley speakeasy, as a beautiful woman, about Sam's age, walked up and said in a thick Spanish accent, "Have you seen my boy freynd, Señor?"  
  
Sam turned around and was about to comment further on Sweeney's horrible use of color when a sudden wave of recognition came upon him.  
  
"Elita Franchita Gordita?"  
  
"In de flesh." Suddenly, Elita doubled back: "Sahm?"  
  
"Elita?"  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Elita!"  
  
"Sam!"  
  
(For Sam, the happy ending had come about three pages too soon.)  
  
"Aaaah, Elita."  
  
"Mmmmm, Sam."  
  
Sam wasn't the only one having a good time. Georgia and Jizzo, who were sitting in the front, had never known that Joe was such a key player in the jazzy orchestra. They enjoyed every minute of his playing, and started wishing that they had taken up saxophone in middle school.  
  
On the stage, Joe was also having a blast. He had never played so much at one time in his whole life . Actually, he had, but this time was different, because he was the star for a change, and more than one important person was watching. Solo after solo, he continued to knock 'em dead, blow their socks off, and basically stun the crowd with his wonderful sound.  
  
* * *  
  
"Three cheers for you, Mr. Robinson."  
  
It was a day like most others at the Shoebox Speakeasy, except for one difference: today everyone was actually happy about everything going on.  
  
Everyone was hunched around the bar, Georgia, Joe, Sam, and Elita, laughing and chatting with each other. "You really were good on that saxophone, Joe," said Georgia, as things were calming down.  
  
Elita nodded her head shyly in agreement.  
  
Joe turned red in the face and looked down sheepishly at his feet.  
  
"Yeah, I know," added Sam. "I always knew you had it in you. Hey, maybe sometime you could come over and play at my bar instead of at the dumb Sweeney's. I pay well..."  
  
"I don't know..." answered Joe.  
  
"I also give out free drinks," Sam persisted, after an awkward sort of silence.  
  
Joe thought a while longer, then replied, "I'll think about it."  
  
"Anyways," Georgia continued, "How do you get that good sound out of your instrument? I mean, I've never heard you playing like that before."  
  
"Let's just say I was inspired."  
  
"Ooo, my boyfriend's getting mysterious."  
  
"Hey," interrupted Sam, "I just realized that that Louis Armstrong guy didn't play as much as usual today. He must've been feelin' sick."  
  
"That's possible," replied Joe. He wasn't sure he liked all the attention he was getting, so he decided to change the subject. "Hey! Whatever happened to that Jacky Bartholomew fellow that was always hanging out here?"  
  
"You never heard?" Sam exclaimed. "The police finally recognized that the guy was a nut, so they took him to the in-sanitarium."  
  
"Don't you mean asylum?" the ever-smart Georgia butted in.  
  
"Whatever. Anyhow, I kinda miss the guy."  
  
"Yeah," said Joe, "it is a lot quieter now, I have to admit. But anyway, it's probably the best for him, after all."  
  
"I will miss the poor guy, even if he was annoying... after all, where else am I gonna use these anesthetic beers?"  
  
The small crowd at the bar chuckled at the small joke. As the laghter was dying down, a couple of shady-looking characters walked in, breathless, as if they had been exersizing.  
  
"Haven't I seen you two guys at Sweeney's place?" Joe inquired of the people.  
  
"Yeah," said the first one. "I'm Jim, and this short fat guy is my buddy, Bob."  
  
The fellow named Bob continued, "We were at Sweeney's place just now, actually, but a couple of cops showed up and closed the place down."  
  
"Why's that?" Joe persisted.  
  
Jim picked up, "They said something about illegal sale of alcohol during prohibition. Anyway, we left as inconspicuously as we could to find some other place that sold beer."  
  
"Well, you've found it," Sam said dryly, "and thanks for the warning. Have some on the house."  
  
Aside from all the clamour that was ensuing, Georgia found Joe and asked, "But Joe, now that Sweeney's place is closed down, aren't you out of a job?"  
  
To which Joe replied, "Didn't I already tell you? I must've forgot. I quit the band."  
  
"Quit?"  
  
"The only place you can go from the top is down."  
  
"Is that your only reason?"  
  
"Well," said Joe, slyly, "I figured Oliver's band might keep us from starting our family." He took out a beautiful diamond ring. "Georgia, will you marry me?"  
  
Georgia was so excited all she could do was scream.  
  
"Gee, people get really emotional around here," Jim commented to Bob.  
  
"I know," said Bob. "It'll be a nice change from that other place."  
  
Meanwhile, in all his excitement, Joe stood on a chair and shouted, "Beers all around, on me!"  
  
"How do ya like that?" said Jim. "Two free beers in a day. I might like this place after all."  
  
Much later that night, Joe was helping Sam clean his Shoebox up.  
  
"Well Joe," Sam stated, "it looks like you finally got that happy ending you've been waiting for."  
  
"Whatever you say, Sam." 


End file.
